Throy Page 18

  “Interesting,” said Namour. “The vessel is sound?”

  “So I would imagine.”

  “What do you suppose its underwater range might be?”

  Barduys shrugged. “I don’t recall, exactly. It carries a crew of two and a half-dozen passengers. It can move at fifty knots and probably has a range of several thousand miles.”

  Namour nodded. “It just might be that I could arrange a sale for you, if the price were right.”

  “Indeed,” said Barduys. “What is your offer?”

  Namour laughed and made a deprecatory gesture. “Recently I met an eccentric gentleman who was convinced that the ruins of an alien civilization were sunk beneath the waters of the Mocar Sea on the world Tyrhoon. Do you know it?”

  “No.”

  Namour went on. “He mentioned that he needed a small dependable submarine of long-range capability. It occurs to me that I might act as broker for the transaction.”

  “I will listen to your proposal, certainly.”

  Namour nodded thoughtfully. “In terms of trade, do you have any particular needs which might serve as a basis for discussion? I might work out some kind of complicated three-way deal.”

  Barduys smiled a small bitter smile. “You have sold me the labor contracts of six hundred Yips, all worthless, as you well knew. Now you expect me to deal with you again.”

  Namour chuckled, showing no discomfiture. “Sir, you wrong me. I gave not even the inkling of a warranty – and for a very good reason. I had no control over the working environment. The Yips will work if conditions are right; they have worked at Araminta Station for centuries.”

  “So what is the secret?”

  “It is no secret. The Yip cannot understand a compulsion to work for something intangible, such as the need to pay off a debt. What is past is past. He will function in a system based upon tangible reality. One quantum of work must yield one quantum of payment, both exactly defined. So long as the Yip covets the payment he will do the work. He must never be allowed a surfeit, and never be paid in advance.”

  “You did not explain this when you delivered the Yips.”

  “If I had done so, it might have been construed as a warranty, which I could not possibly undertake.”

  “Namour,” said Barduys, “I give you credit for plausibility. But in any future transaction, I would insist upon terms carefully defined, from which you could not sidle or slide.”

  “Mr. Barduys, you wrong me,” said Namour, with a pro forma show of indignation, which Barduys ignored.

  “I think that I could use another contingent of Yips, of a certain sort. At least, this is my present thinking.”

  “I see no problem here.”

  “As I mentioned, the new contract will be defined precisely and its terms must be fulfilled exactly, to the last iota.”

  Namour pulled at his chin, and looked off across the lobby. “In theory this is desirable. Unfortunately, while I can promise the moon, my principals must approve everything. Still, I believe that the deal has prospects. What, precisely, are your terms?”

  “First, I pay over no fees, of any kind. Next, you will transport the Yips in passenger ships, to a place of my designation.”

  “‘Passenger ships’?” Namour’s tone was doubtful. “These are Yips, not travelling aristocrats.”

  “Still, I do not care to have them hauled like cattle. I will charter the ships to you from my own passenger fleet.”

  “I suppose that is possible, depending upon charter fees.”

  “Cost, plus ten percent. You cannot do better.”

  Namour relaxed. “That seems, at the very least, negotiable. How many head do you require? Another six hundred?”

  “I will need twenty thousand individuals, the sexes in equal proportion. They must be sound of limb and intellect, under the age of thirty: in other words, young folk in excellent health. These are my conditions. You must meet them exactly.”

  Namour’s jaw dropped. ‘That is a very large consignment!”

  “Wrong!” declared Barduys. “It is not large enough to solve your basic problem, which is the total evacuation of Lutwen Atoll to hospitable environment off-world.”

  Namour responded in a subdued voice: “Still, I can’t make so large a commitment, without consultation.”

  Barduys turned away indifferently. “As you like.”

  “One moment,” said Namour. “Back to the submarine: what about delivery?”

  “That is no great problem. I own a very large transport which could carry the entire submarine as a unit. This I would charter to you on the same terms as those I previously quoted.”

  Namour nodded. “And what of confidentiality?”

  “I don’t care to know anything. Pick up the submarine, take it away - to Tyrhoon or Canopus or McDoodle’s Planet; or anywhere you like. I will volunteer no information in regard to the transaction. If I am questioned by the IPCC, I shall tell what I know - which is that I sold you a submarine.”

  Namour grimaced. “I will give you an answer soon.”

  “It must be soon indeed, since I am leaving Cadwal directly.”

  Namour returned in a gloomy mood. The news was bad, Titus Pompo the Oomphaw - meaning Smonny - would not allow him a contingent so large. If Barduys wanted twenty thousand Yips, he must be prepared to accept persons of all ages, young to old. Barduys replied that he would accept a few Yips - perhaps as many as two thousand, evenly distributed in ages from thirty to fifty, provided that they were sound and healthy. He would compromise no farther; Namour’s principals must accept the deal or forget it.

  Namour gave grudging agreement to the terms, and Barduys in due course implemented his end of the transaction. A large cargo vessel arrived at Rhea, swallowed the submarine and departed, for a destination unknown.

  A month passed and Barduys became impatient, but finally the first contingent of Yips, numbering a thousand, was brought to a rendezvous on the world Merakin, before continuing to Rosalia. A team of doctors inspected the group, and instantly saw that Barduys’ stipulations had been contemptuously ignored. Half of the thousand ranged in age from thirty-five to seventy-five. Of these, some were rachitic, while others were senile, or spoke in unknown languages. Of the younger group, about half were deformed, diseased, or psychotic. The others were of subnormal intelligence or sexually disoriented. The group could not have contributed in any way to the lyrical sad-sweet mood Barduys hoped to engender on his idyllic islands.

  Barduys rejected the contingent out of hand. He sought out Namour, who put on a manner of bemused perplexity, as if at a loss to explain the vagaries of Titus Pompo – meaning Smonny. Barduys came to the point at once. He demanded that the contract be properly fulfilled. Namour agreed that serious misunderstandings had occurred, and that he would do his best to straighten matters out, though, of course, he could guarantee nothing.

  Time passed. One day Namour arrived at Stronsi Ranch with discouraging news, to the effect that Titus Pompo had turned obstinate. He was now unwilling to yield so many of his subjects, unless Barduys sweetened the deal, with a few small extra inducements, such as a flight of four Straidor-Ferox gunships.

  Barduys gave the proposal short shrift; the original contract must be fulfilled, or coercive action would be taken, into which Namour himself must be drawn.

  Namour responded with a sad laugh. The matter, he declared, was out of his hands. Barduys shrugged and mentioned, quite casually, that he could sink the submarine at any time he chose. If it were in use at the time - too bad.

  Namour was startled. “How can you do this?”

  “‘How’ doesn’t matter; it’s what happens afterward that is important.”

  Namour, now in a subdued mood, suggested no more compromises. He said that he would explain Barduys’ position to the other parties at interest, then departed.

  “And there you have it,” Barduys told Glawen and Chilke. “In the end Namour decided that the problem could best solved by obliterating its source. He recr
uited Alhaurin and the two chose Bainsey Castle for their ambush.”

  Glawen asked: “So now - what next?”

  Barduys answered in a soft voice. “I am a practical man, and I lack vanity – so I tell myself. Still ...” His voice trailed off. When he spoke again, the linkage between ideas was not immediately obvious. “The IPCC at Port Mona can find no trace of either Namour or the Flecanpraun. This is surely because both are gone from Rosalia.’’

  “If Namour thinks you are dead, I might guess Cadwal.”

  Barduys, staring toward the ceiling, spoke, in a voice like metal sliding on metal. “If so, we will meet again quite soon.”

  Glawen became alert. “You plan to visit Cadwal?”

  “As soon as I can step from this bed and walk without falling flat.”

  Glawen ruminated for a moment. Barduys would not travel so far on the off-chance of a meeting with Namour, gratifying though this occasion might prove. Almost certainly he had other projects in mind. Glawen was reluctant to ask, but he did so anyway. “Why are you going to Cadwal?”

  Barduys spoke casually: “A few items of business hang loose in the air. Both Dame Clytie and Smonny have privately asked for my cooperation. At the moment they are bosom allies. Both want me to transport a horde of Yips to Deucas, to smash Araminta station. Then each plans to harpoon the other.”

  “I hope that you will not oblige them.”

  Barduys chuckled. “Small chance of that.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Barduys murmured, as if in afterthought: “That is to say, almost nothing.”

  “So, what is ‘almost nothing’?”

  The gaunt face showed a trace of animation. “It is quite simple. I want a word or two with Dame Clytie, to settle her doubts and ease her mind. I intend the same for Smonny; she deserves no less.” Barduys paused. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “Perhaps we will confer all together, and then - who knows what fine things might be the outcome?”

  “I hope that Chilke and I will be on hand, if only as observers.”

  “A good idea.” Barduys looked fretfully toward the medic who had come to monitor the therapeutic apparatus. “How long before I am free of these cursed gongs and meters?”

  “Have patience! You were ninety-nine percent dead when you arrived. You will be down for at least another two weeks, and after that, consider each breath you take a miracle in itself.”

  Barduys relaxed. “There is no arguing with these fellows,” he grumbled to Glawen. “They hold all the high cards. What of your own condition?”

  “I am in relatively good shape, since I had only a fraction of what happened to you.”

  “And Eustace Chilke? He seems cheerful enough.”

  “He was soundly thumped. They threw big rocks at him and tried to pull him out upon the slutes with harpoons. But somehow he avoided most of the poison.”

  “Hmf,” growled Barduys. “Chilke was born under a lucky star. That is the reason for his high spirits.”

  “Chilke is a practical man. He avoids fears, grief and dreary thoughts because they make him miserable.”

  Barduys considered a moment, then said: “The concept is sensible, but it is a bit surprising because of its simplicity.”

  “Chilke is often surprising. At the moment he has developed an admiration for Flitz. He suspects that she returns his interest.”

  Barduys managed a chuckle. “He is an optimist indeed. Such campaigns have been mounted before, with brave advances and hangdog retreats. Flitz may or may not have a soul.”

  “You do not disapprove?”

  “Of course not! How could I? He saved my life - with a little help from you. In any event, Flitz does as she pleases.”

  * * *

  Chapter 6, Part III

  Glawen, in a wheelchair and Chilke, limping and hobbling, went out to sit on the terrace. The morning air was cool; the wind no more than a whisper. The balustrade and a pair of ironwood posts, to right and left, framed the view to the south, so that it seemed a landscape executed by a genius artificer in scratchings of black ink and sepia wash.

  Glawen and Chilke sat blinking in the sunlight. Glawen told of his conversation with Barduys. “It means that at the very least we can return to Araminta Station and declare our mission a success.”

  Chilke agreed, with a single reservation. “A purist – such as Bodwyn Wook - might mention the name ‘Namour.’ We have not apprehended him.”

  “No matter. That particular case has been taken from our hands and transferred to a new jurisdiction.”

  “By orders of Barduys?”

  Glawen nodded. “Barduys resents the loss of his Flecanpraun, not to mention the attack on his life. It is

  enough to answer any criticism Bodwyn Wook might make.”

  “Especially when we relinquish the Fortunatus to Bureau B, for Bodwyn Wook’s official journeys.”

  Glawen winced. “There must be some way to avoid this sacrifice. Try as I might I have thought of nothing legal.”

  “Nor I.”

  “Barduys will not be on his feet for two weeks. I should be walking in a week.”

  “Do not strain yourself on my account,” said Chilke. “I too am barely convalescent. Flitz has been taking a personal concern in my case. We are both puzzled as to why the agony in my leg yields only to her massage.”

  “Some people have the gift of healing,” said Glawen.

  “That is the case with Flitz. She has many admirable traits, and a bond of mutual esteem is slowly growing

  between us.”

  “Interesting! ‘Slowly,’ you say?”

  “Well yes. Quite slowly. These things cannot be rushed. For a fact she is still a bit elusive.”

  “I think that Flitz senses what you have in mind. She is starting to peek around corners before entering a room.”

  “Nonsense!” scoffed Chilke. “Women are fascinated by the thrill of danger, even when it is imaginary. It gives them a sense of power and purpose; they are allured like rats to Gorgonzola.”

  “What is ‘Gorgonzola’?”

  “It is a cheese found on Old Earth. A rat is a rat.”

  “Ah! That makes everything clear. you think that Flitz is edging in on the bait?”

  Chilke nodded confidently. “I’ll have her eating out of my hand in three days, plus or minus four hours.”

  Glawen gave his head a dubious shake. “I wonder if Flitz has any notion of the danger she is in.”

  “I hope not,” said Chilke. “She is far too fast on her feet already.”

  Later in the day Chilke found an opportunity to test Flitz’ reflexes. He called to her as she was passing through the main hall. “Flitz, this way! Just in time for the poetry reading!”

  Flitz halted. She wore a white pullover shirt of dull soft material and pale blue trousers; she had gathered her bright hair away from her face with a black ribbon. Chilke could find no fault with her appearance. She asked: “Who is reading poetry to whom?”

  Chilke held up a volume bound in limp leather. “I have here Navarth’s Pullulations. You can recite one of your favorites, then I’ll sing out one of mine. On your way, bring over a jug of Old Sidewinder and two heavy-duty mugs.”

  Flitz showed a cool smile. “I am not in the mood for poetry just now, Mr. Chilke. But there is no reason why you should not read aloud to yourself, as eloquently as you like. I will close the door and no one will protest.”

  Chilke put aside the leather-bound book. “That kind of poetry lacks charm. Anyway, it’s getting on time for the picnic.”

  Despite herself, Flitz was brought up short. “What ‘picnic’ is this?”

  “I thought it would be nice if you and I took our lunch and went off somewhere for a picnic.”

  Flitz showed the faintest of smiles. “With your leg in such painful condition? That would not be wise.”

  Chilke made a gallant gesture. “There is nothing to fear. The first
pang will be a signal for you to apply your magic touch; the pain will go, and we can continue our conversation, or whatever it is we are doing.”

  “Mr. Chilke, you are deluding yourself.”

  “Absolutely not, and call me ‘Eustace.’”

  “As you like. But, for the moment -”

  “Now that I think of it, I feel a vicious twinge at this very instant.”

  “Too bad,” said Flitz.

  “You wouldn’t care to practice this miraculous art, or whatever it is?”

  “Not just now.” Flitz departed the room, with a final expressionless glance over her shoulder toward Chilke.

  At mid-morning on the following day Chilke quietly entered the hall. He settled himself upon a couch and, looking out over the landscape, became absorbed in a reverie.

  Flitz presently crossed the far end of the hall. She took note of Chilke, slowed her step, then departed the hall. An hour later Flitz once again passed through the room. Chilke, engrossed in the flight of a distant bird, seemed not to notice. Flitz halted, looked curiously out the window, inspected Chilke for an instant, then continued on her errand.

  A few minutes later Flitz was back. As before, Chilke sat pondering the hazy distances. Flitz slowly approached the couch. Chilke looked up to find her studying him with clinical curiosity. She asked: “Are you well? You’ve been sitting here in a stupor all morning.”

  Chilke uttered a hollow laugh. “A stupor? Hardly! I was day-dreaming, thinking beautiful thoughts. At least some of them were beautiful. Some were mystifying.”

  Flitz turned away. “Dream on, Mr. Chilke. I’m sorry I troubled your rhapsody. “

  “Not so fast! It can wait!” cried Chilke, suddenly energetic. “Sit down for a moment. I have something to tell you.”

  Flitz hesitated, then gingerly seated herself at the end of the couch. “What is the problem?”

  “There’s no problem. It’s more like a commentary, or an analysis.”

  “Of what?”

  “In the main: me.”

  Flitz could not restrain a laugh. “The subject is too vast, Mr. Chilke! We won’t have time for it today.”

  Chilke paid no heed. “When I was a boy I lived at Idola, on Old Earth. My three sisters were popular and brought home their friends, so that I had the misfortune to grow up surrounded by a clutter of pretty girls. They came in all sizes and ratings. Some were tall, some were short, some were built for speed. It was a jungle of pulchritude.”